


Northern Fools

by Hypomone535



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Political Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 15:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14979986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypomone535/pseuds/Hypomone535
Summary: After the Great War Jon makes a declaration.





	Northern Fools

The ache of her fingers protested as a knock came at her solar door. She looked at the waning of the fire, noting the lateness of the hour.

Brienne voice called from outside the door, “My Queen? It is your cousin that comes. Can he disturb you?”

Setting her needle aside, Sansa stood for Jon. She smiled as he bumbled through the door, his face a mask of seriousness as always.

“Thank you Brienne.” Sansa called to her friend. “How does your leg feel this evening?”

Brienne looked down, the wound from battle still a troublesome part of this new life. “I am healing quickly my lady. Very grateful for the care of Winterfell and the attention of my queen.” She glared at Jon as she emphasized Sansa’s title. “I will be outside the door if you need me.”

Nodding Sansa watched her lady knight exit the room. She motioned to the chair next to her. “Won’t you sit down Jon?”

His eyes touched hers briefly then came to the requested seat. He waited a beat while she sat down and retained her sewing needle, then followed her and sat.

Overtime, Sansa had learned not to press him. When he was ready to talk, she knew he would find his voice. Still, his extended pause made her stomach knit uncomfortably. It felt the same way the night before he left for Dragonstone, when he had come to her and laid out his plan to win the Dragon Queen’s support. No mattered what he had to do.

“I can see Lady Brienne still doesn’t trust me.”

Pausing her stitch she looked up at him. Surprised that his thoughts mirrored hers so completely. “She doesn’t know the truth of your relationship to Daenerys. She along with most of the North think you actually bent the knee.”

“You even managed to convince Littlefinger before he died. That alone nearly made me forget your actual plan…”

He sighed, “I’m not proud of it Sansa. I did what I had to.”

“Yes, you did.” She reached out and touched his leather clad arm. “But you didn’t come here to discuss Daenerys. Do you need my council or just my company?”

His mouth tipped into a rugged smile, his rigid shoulders easing against the back of the chair. He looked down at her dainty hand. “Both.”

The wind howled from outside, Sansa moved to put down her sewing. Turning to Jon she gave him her attention.

“You heard the discussion among the lord’s today at council?”

“I did.”

“You didn’t comment.”

She looked toward the hearth, the familiar crack of fire comforted her uneven emotions. “I usually have much to say at council because I am not surprised by the requests of the lords. Today they surprised me.”

He snorted. “I had to keep from punching the lot of them, the way they strutted out their sons and grandsons and nephews before you.”

Sansa smiled at his description, noting its complete accuracy. “What did you think of Ser Rickard the Gallant? He was my favorite.”

Jon faced scrunched before he heard her chuckle. His chest tumbled as he joined her in light laughter.

Reaching across the arm of the chair, Sansa took his hand. “When we sit together in the evenings your mouth is so solemn. It does my heart happy to see your eyes twinkle and hear the roll of your laughter.”

He gripped her hand, their laughter fading into the room as her sincere words stung his heart. “Will you do as they ask Sansa?”

Her breathe came in sharp, but she looked forward resolute. “I will do my duty.”

“I will protect you.”

Her head shook forcefully, “Stop that. I will not have you come to harm because of me. No more fighting, remember?”

A heavy feeling settled in his gut at the finality of her words. Fear was familiar. He’d grown so accustomed to into during war he felt oddly at peace each time he drew Longclaw from its sheath. He saw that same resigned determination in her, and it made his heart sick that she too suffered this fate. Yet, this was war. And Sansa? She was the North’s most decorated soldier.

Jon Snow had led a quiet life. He had never asked for any glory or recognition. All he ever wanted was peace, a safety for those he’d…loved.

There it was, crystal clear like the eyes of the sea. Flashes of memory, buried with confusing feelings, reserected in his conscious. The rage and softness melted into an undeniable truth. The Great War was now over, the one that had ravaged men as well as the one that had ravaged his heart.

Imprudently, he came and knelt before her. Kneading their fingers together, he felt her knees press against him. “And if I never want to leave you? Would you turn me out because I am a Targaryen degenerate? Because I am no better than the Kingslayer, alike in passion and in deed?”

A hot flush of desperate agony traveled through Sansa’s blood. The truth that lay in his declaration was mirrored in his stormy eyes and promised in his aching touch.

Searching her own heart she found she was not truly surprised, she had longed for him similarly, but squashed any foolish notion that she would be able to realize that secret hunger.

“Jon…”

He pressed in tighter. “Don’t send me away. I will stand beside you as your queen’s guard if I must. I will not let those men sell you like chattel.”

A small smile fell on her lips, his exuberant passion made her dizzy. “Are you finished?”

Eyes falling to her lips, he shook his head. “Not entirely.”

Her eyes flashed, losing the mirth that had laced them after his speech of fealty. He put both hands on her and whispered against her lips, “I won’t ever hurt you.”

A tremor flourished through his lips as they settled against hers. The slow movement was made difficult, after he had a taste. With much care he kept his kiss light, feathering her with his burning touch.

And then…

A deep, contented, slow breath escaped her body. She whispered back to him. “I’ve been such a fool.”

This time he pressed against her, his chest flush with her body, wrapped in her skirts that were made open for him. His arms encased her, their forms merging together. With a gentle hand he stroked her hair, finally allowing himself the liberty to lavish in the taste of her. 

Standing atop the walls of Winterfell as a boy, Jon used to believe that the sun would never set on the North, its sheer vastness so overwhelming. He never thought to hold such fantasies again, but neither did he plan on the feeling of Sansa.

Pulling away, she reached up and touched the corners of his eyes. “Are you crying?”

“Aye,” he whispered. “I’m a fool too.”


End file.
